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Between the five of us, our pack has well over a billion dollars. Enough money that finding Sylvie shouldn’t have been fucking impossible. But it was, and the only explanation my brain could come up with for that was that she was dead. It was devastating. The idea of that.
It only got worse when her grandmother died, and she didn’t show for the service. I’d spent the whole damn thing half hope, half agony, thinking this would finally be it. One way or another, we would know.
She didn’t come, and I… didn’t handle it well.
The last few months have been a blur, too much drinking, fucking, drowning in my misery and grief. I’d given up on her, on us. If she was alive she would be here, she would have come back to us and she didn’t.
So why the hell was I saving myself for her?
It’s fucked up, I know. And I’m not proud of using other women as a coping mechanism. Definitely not proud of how I’d close my eyes and imagine it was Vee under me. It’s the only way I could come.
And now, like some fucked up joke from the universe, she’s back. Jackson ran into her on the fucking street and she’s here. And I have nothing but guilt for how I’ve acted. Even though she knows none of it.
I feel disloyal. Like I cheated on her somehow. I felt that way even while I did it, while I was balls deep in some other woman. A vicious part of me wanted her to somehow find out about it, that I was fucking someone who wasn’t her. I wanted her to hurt as much as I do.
But now... God, now that couldn’t be further from the truth.
It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. She’s here now. And everything that happened in the past is just that: in the past.
Except it’s not. I’m going to have to tell her, going to have to let her know that losing her sent me on a downward spiral I’m still struggling to get out of. But her being here helps, gives me a purpose, a reason. I need her to stay, to give us a chance. I think maybe she needs it too.
I just have to help her see it, too.
Which is part of why I’m here, at the base of the steps that lead up to her little bungalow. It’s late, far too fucking late for me to be doing this, but over the last thirty-six hours I haven’t been able to get the conversation with Sylvie out of my head.
I need to know more. My alpha is all but demanding it. I haven’t slept and I don’t think I’ll be able to until I do this. Until I talk to her again.
I glance over my shoulder, feeling like some kind of criminal as I take the three steps onto the porch. The light beside the door is lit up, illuminating the wide wooden swing and the plants decorating the space.
My heart thunders in my chest as I lift my hand and knock. Almost immediately, I want to run, want to hide. I grit my teeth and make myself stand still. Stay in one place. I need this. I need to see her, have a conversation with her that doesn’t get fucked up by Jackson alpha barking at her.
The sound of approaching footsteps on the other side of the door has me tensing, swallowing thickly. Anticipation and anxiety warring through me at the same time. The door swings open and there she is, looking cozy and rumpled in a pair of sleep shorts and an oversized sweatshirt, like maybe she’d been dozing on the couch when I’d come knocking. I flinch inwardly. It’s not out of the realm of possibility, it’s after ten.
“Ford?” She blinks up at me, her voice husky, cheeks a rosy pink.
My lips curl into a half smirk, my chest unclenching when she doesn’t immediately start shouting at me. “Hey, pipsqueak.”
A yawn spreads her lips, and she runs a hand over her face. “What are you doing here?”
It takes everything in me to not reach out and tuck her hair behind her ear, to run my fingers over the gentle swell of her cheek down her throat. I hugged her yesterday, couldn’t keep myself from touching her, and the memory of her choked, panicked response is enough for me to keep my hands to myself now.
“I wanted to check on you,” I say, tucking my hands into my pockets as an added line of defense against touching her. “Now that we know where you are, you can expect us to do that pretty frequently.”
Her brows lower into a scowl, her lower lip pushing out into a pout. “Okay, well, you’ve done that. I’m going to go back to my glass of wine now.”
She tries to close the door on my face, but I catch it, keeping it open, and she lets me. Thank god for that. If she really pushed, I would let her, even though I know it would mean another sleepless night.
“Please, pip,” I urge. “Don’t shut me out. Not yet.”
She sighs and leans against the door, looking up at me. The hand not still gripping the door handle drifts up, touches the blue circle under my left eye. But she doesn’t comment on it.
My eyes slip closed, enjoying the tiny touch before they open again, sweeping the room behind her, noting the three empty wine bottles on the counter. I frown. As far as I know, she hasn’t had company, and she’s only been in this house for a day.
“Did you drink all that wine?” The question falls out of my lips before I can remind myself that it’s not really any of my business, not yet.
Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t avoid the question or my gaze as she says. “I did. Without going too many into specifics, it helps me sleep.”
That just makes my frown grow. “You’re self medicating, pipsqueak?”
